


Understanding the Difference Between a Nudge and a Shove

by Cimila



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Canonical Character Death, Declarations Of Love, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cimila/pseuds/Cimila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes moves away, and Steve has a hard time finding himself afterwards. Luckily, Sam Wilson finds him before he can do anything stupid. Stupid-er.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding the Difference Between a Nudge and a Shove

**Author's Note:**

> This is for vulcanhearted over on tumblr for the marvel rare pair exhange! I hope you like it, even though it's not finished yet. The next, hopefully final, part should be up in the next day or two. Not fully beta'd properly, though I'll get to that in a day or two as well, I just wanted to get it posted before the deadline. (Although, it is past the dealine already where I am, thank god for different time zones.)
> 
> Also, there's a serious abuse/misuse of the comma, and probably a bit of fuckery with apostrphes as well.

Steve Rogers had known for years that he was in love with his best friend; practically since the older boy had pulled his skinny frame out of a fight in a back alley somewhere in Brooklyn (he says somewhere like he doesn’t know the exact alley, like he doesn’t have the entire day memorised; like he goes somewhere else when he’s full of anger and so lonely) and waded in to put an end to the fight. Steve hadn’t said anything for a few reasons; he didn’t want to make things awkward between them, didn’t want Bucky to feel obligated in any way, didn’t want to lose his best friend. And it hurt, being so close to him all the time and being unable to, well, to love Bucky like Steve wanted to. But it was bearable. It was better than the alternative.

It’s not like Steve thought that Bucky was going to wait around for him forever; that Steve would work up his courage one day and tell him, or pull him down for a kiss, and Bucky would smile at him, pull him closer and ask what had taken him so long. Steve knew Bucky would fall into a relationship with someone and fall in love and make a whole life for himself. He knew that, and he was prepared to be happy and supportive (in the future, the far future, they were only teenagers, he had time) because, no matter what else, Bucky was his best friend and there was nothing that was going to come between them.  
Except this was coming between them, and Steve couldn’t stop it.

There was literally nothing that he could do to keep Bucky with him, to continue on as they had been. Steve’d been prepared to step aside for some intangible future spouse of Buckys, not to be sitting inside JFK airport watching the clock tick down until Bucky had to board the plane. Steve knew that life was unpredictable and things didn’t turn out the way you plan, but this had blindsided them almost more than the death of Buckys mother had, a scant few months before.  
A car crash had taken her life, and was now essentially taking Bucky from Steve. 

And, God, didn’t he hate himself for that comparison? Winifred Barnes had died. She’d suffered for hours in a car wreck before she’d died, and here Steve was, comparing that horrendous situation to Bucky moving away. Privately, in the corner of his mind that he didn’t like to think about, the part of himself where he jealously hoarded Buckys attention and was glad when his relationships fell through, Steve wondered if the situations were exactly the same. If he’d struggle on for a few months, trying so hard to live, before dying as well. 

A polite voice sounded over the airports intercom system, giving a firm but insistent reminder that Buckys flight was now boarding. His father and two sisters were already on the plane, probably their luggage as well. They’d been sitting on these uncomfortable seats for hours, now. The last hours they’d spend together for who knew how long, and they’d sat in silence, pressed together from shoulder to knee. There were so many things that Steve wanted to say, needed Bucky to know, but he hadn’t said a word. Steves hand had found Buckys a few minutes after the rest of the Barnes’ had left to board, and he clung even harder now, watching the clock tick closer and closer to the departure time.

The staff that went by from time to time, and the other passengers as well for that matter, gave them pitying looks. After all, Steve hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet (Steve was becoming doubtful that he ever would, he was almost fifteen, after all, no matter what encouraging things Bucky and his Ma said to him) and so he was small enough that he could pass for Buckys younger brother, despite the difference in their appearance. 

Steve wondered what they’d think if they knew he was a fag, clinging desperately to the boy he loved but was too afraid to tell. Bucky shifted next to him, and sighed. Steves hand tightened around his reflexively, and Bucky huffed out a weak sounding laugh before restarting a conversation that had taken place between them a million different times, in a million different ways, since George Barnes announced they were moving back to his home country.

“I can’t leave Becca and Marie with him; he’s gone downhill fast since…” He paused around the mention of his mothers’ death, before continuing, “They’re just kids, they need me.” And even though Bucky was recently sixteen himself, Steve knew it was true. Rebecca was eleven and Marie was eight, there was no way they could fend for themselves in another country, especially when they barely knew the language. 

“Of course you have to go, Buck.” Steve said quietly, because that’s what it came down to. Bucky was trying to find reasons to get on that plane, had been since his father announced their move. A tiny bit of Steve was thrilled that Bucky was so reluctant to leave him, had seriously considered staying in Brooklyn for him. Steve knew, though, that Bucky couldn’t stay. His sisters needed him and if Bucky let them go, he’d never forgive himself. He wouldn’t be the reason why Bucky lost his family.

“And I’ll send you letters every week. After all, it’s only Russia. The Iron Curtain is down now, has been for a few years, so writing you should be easy as pie.” Steve hoped his smile looked right, because he sure as hell didn’t feel right inside. Bucky slung an arm around his shoulder and hauled them both off the bench as the intercom chimed once again. Last call for Buckys flight.

“You better stay out of trouble, punk.” The brunette kept his arm around Steves shoulder, looking straight into his eyes. Steve almost didn’t want to look back, afraid that Bucky would see everything in his eyes, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to look away from Bucky now. Didn’t ever want to look away from Bucky, for all that he wasn’t going to see him for possibly years. 

“I love you.” Steve felt like he was going to shatter into a million pieces, and all Bucky did was grin. He could hardly believe he’d said it, in the middle of an airport, seconds before Bucky left to fly to God knows where in Russia. He’d said it and Bucky was ginning at him like Steve had said ‘how can I get into trouble when you’re taking it all with you?’ instead. 

“I love you too, Steve.” For about a second, Steve thought his heart was going to explode from his chest because Bucky loved him back. It was inconceivable, ridiculous. Steve felt the corner of his mouth twitch up despite himself, even though Bucky was leaving, even though he could have said this months ago (years ago) and saved himself lonely nights of pining, where he waited up for his mother and she pretended she didn’t know. And then Bucky leant in and kissed his forehead and the bubble burst because oh. Bucky had sounded so serious when he said it because he meant it, he loved Steve. Loved him, not in the way where you kiss someone full on the lips before you leave, but in the way where you kiss their forehead and ruffle their hair before hugging them.

Loved him like a brother. 

Steve smiled at Bucky as he walked away even though he really was shattered inside now, because he was so fucking stupid. There was only one thing which could have made Buckys leaving for Russia worse and Steve, fucking fool that he is, had walked into it like he walked into some fights; with bravery, conviction and hope and fuck all else. And this time, unlike the fights he’d been in in the past, and so like the fights he could foresee in his future, Bucky couldn’t save him. 

-

Writing to Bucky was easy, it turned out. He wrote the letter; talked about everything he’d done recently, about their, his, school, about his ma, and the weather, and gee, Buck, you should see Missy Cartwright now, you’d regret dumping her. He didn’t write about how many fights he’d gotten into that week, how he’d had to go visit his Ma at the hospital, not to each lunch with her but to get three of his fingers and four of his ribs reset after he’d called out a member of the visiting football team for harassing Missy. Didn’t tell Bucky about how his Ma had developed a nasty cough that wasn’t going away. 

It’d do no good to worry Bucky, now that he was halfway across the world Veliky Novgorod (Just Novgorod, Steve, you don’t hafta say the whole thing every time), which Bucky had told him was listed as a world heritage site. Steve included some one the smaller scuffles he got into, ones where he only sprained a wrist or got a black eye or two, otherwise Bucky really would start to worry. Besides, after receiving a few of Buckys letters, Steve didn’t feel too bad leaving things out because he clearly wasn’t the only one. Bucky talked of his sisters, not his father. The classes were really good, challenging, and his Russian was improving in leaps and bounds, but he didn’t write a word about his new classmates, about the friends Steve desperately hoped he was making. 

Writing letters to Bucky as so easy, especially since Bucky couldn’t see the first drafts, the ones he ripped up and threw in the trash. It seems since he’d said it once, he couldn’t stop telling him, regardless of the rejection he’d received loud and clear. He’d be writing, paying attention just enough that his writing was legible, and then it poured out. Each time he tried to write a letter his first draft would go something like this:

… really like the teacher I have for art this year, she’s a really free spirit type. She’s got us doing an art project on things we love. Any medium, so of course I’m drawing. Going around drawing all sort of things, I’ve drawn Ma so many times this term I think she’s starting to get sick of me. But every time I go to draw it up real big so that I can hand it in, it turns into you. Your lips and nose and eyes, even your stupid hair. I wish I could see you now, Buck, see if anything’s changed. It wouldn’t matter if it had, I love you anyway. After all,- 

It was sort of pathetic, Steve mused, that he might be more in love with Bucky now that he was thousands of miles away than he had been when they regularly spent their nights curled around each other like a couple of overgrown pups. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. Not being able to see Bucky whenever he wanted hurt; it didn’t help that Steve walked passed their old place all the time. If he let his mind wander as he trudged past, he could almost hear Buckys voice on the wind, teasing him for moping around and shouting to his Ma that Steve was gonna be there for dinner. But there was no Mrs. Barnes, not any more. No James Barnes, either. 

Writing was an easy back and forth between them, sometimes sending letters out before the reply to their previous letter arrived. Steve would be so eager to tell Bucky about something that he’d scratch out a letter (reread it a few times to make sure he hadn’t said anything untoward) and then send it off. Sometimes Steve would come home from school to see three letters from Bucky waiting for him on the table, and he always felt a bit lighter knowing that Bucky was just as eager to talk to him.

It was so easy until it wasn’t. 

Steve sent his letters as usual, once a week at a minimum if he was busy, more if he wasn’t. He was at the post office buying stamps so often that the clerks knew him by sight, and Steve knew that Barbara loved Friends and David had an abiding love for Gillian Anderson and had never missed an episode of the X-Files. Steve had missed most of the newer ones, because Bucky was the one who loved sci-fi, but he still watched it when he could. Steve sent his letters and waited for Buckys. And waited. And waited. 

He’d talked to both Barbara and David about every possible reason why he wasn’t receiving his mail (every reason except one) and they were all scratching their heads trying to figure it out (eventually he stopped asking, got stamps from somewhere else, because the pity in their eyes made him want to tear off his skin). Steve still sent his letters to Bucky, once a week, and he still waited for a reply, but he didn’t wait inside anymore. The apartment was usually empty, his Ma working as much overtime as she could, (‘saving for Christmas’ she winked at him, like he didn’t see her blood stained handkerchief tucked into her pocket) so Steve spent his spare time walking around Brooklyn. 

Bucky would have been appalled at the amount of fights he’d gotten into, and his Ma, if she’d known about most of them. It’s not like Steve left the apartment with the intention of getting into fights, but he couldn’t stand bullies, and he’d never backed down from a fight. Bucky had once said he was like Marty McFly, joking around the words for all his eyes had been dark and worried. But Bucky wasn’t here, and his Ma was trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t getting sicker and sicker every day, and though he didn’t search out fights, didn’t throw the first punch, he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t enjoy thinking about something else for a while. 

November turned into December and Steve kept writing, kept waiting, kept limping into his apartment bruised and bloodied, half hoping his Ma was asleep or at work so he wouldn’t worry her, half hoping she was waiting up for him with a disapproving frown because maybe then they’d be able to talk about what was going on. He imagined the conversation, sometimes, during class when he should’ve been working. He’d come in, fresh from a brawl (and he was winning more and more, these days, slowly getting taller and broader, and what do you know, that growth spurt is finally catching up) and she’d be sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. 

‘Stevie, why are you doing this to yourself,’ she’d ask him, accent curling around the words, and Steve would shrug and pretend that he didn’t know, that he wasn’t going to answer. She’d shake her head, some of her dark hair slipping free from its usual bun, and really look at him.

‘Steven Grant Rogers,’ she would say, stern and demanding like she used to be before she started coughing up blood, before it hurt for her to yell, ‘sit down and talk to me.’ And he would. He would walk the few steps to the table and sit across from her. Take her hands and apologise, and he’d tell her everything. Tears would well up in her eyes when Steve confronted her about her illness, and she’d resist but eventually tell him what was wrong, would stop holding him at arms length like it would magically make everything better. But she was never waiting for him, stern but worried, mouth in a thin line and eyes tight.

Steve tried to start the conversation himself, a few times. She’d play ignorant, laughing off all his attempts, and one day he’d reached his limit. He was getting bigger, sure, but there were still plenty of bullies out in Brooklyn who were bigger than him, and he was sore from fist shaped bruises, and sore from growing pains and just so tired of everything, so he reached out to grab the hanky she kept shoved up the sleeve of her jumper to force a conversation, a confrontation, something, anything. She flinched away from his searching hand like he was going to hit her, and Steve didn’t really feel anything after that. He carefully edged around her on autopilot, walked to his room the same way. Ignored her calling after him and shut the door quietly. 

He didn’t move for a long time.

-

He visits the grave of Winifred Barnes, unkempt and overgrown, and wonders what she would think of everything. Steve can almost hear her telling him to keep his chin up, and later, when she thought Steve wasn’t listening, telling Bucky to stay safe and ‘watch out for Steve, James, keep that big heart safe.’ 

Steve places the flowers down next to the grave and starts to pull the weeds. 

 

-

Steves suit was too small. The service was long over, Steve needed to go back to their apartment and finish packing his things. He had the apartment until the end of the month, for another week and a bit, and he needed to go through all their things and decide what he was going to keep and what he wasn’t. He’d mostly finished with his own things, but her room was still untouched apart from the bed. He’d slept there every night since, and already her scent was starting to fade. But instead he was standing next to the freshly turned dirt of his mothers grave. He doesn’t know why, but he’d expected the grave to be six feet long, as well as six foot deep. He doesn’t know how deep it is, but it’s sure as hell not six foot in length. He doesn’t know why he’d expected it, she’d been such a tiny woman, and smaller still in death, but that’s what he’d expected nonetheless. 

Steve sat down next to the grave, looking at the tombstone. ‘In loving Memory of Sarah Rogers’ was carved into the grave marker. Mrs. Becket, from the congregation, had told him that it looked beautiful. Steve hated the sight of it. He hated everything about the grave, about the funeral, no matter how many times he heard ‘what a lovely service’, he knew it wasn’t true. He couldn’t understand why anyone would say that. Who cares if Father Kinsella didn’t fuck up the rites, his mother was still cold and dead, nothing was going to change that. The looks he’d received from most of the other attendees of the service told him that he wasn’t acting appropriately.

Steve honestly didn’t give a fuck. Steve didn’t thank Father Kinsella either, and on any other day he might’ve felt bad about that, but he’d just put his mother in the ground and nothing else really mattered. For a second Steve thought that maybe one day, in the far future, he’d be able to look back on the whole service and be happy that she’d had ‘a lovely service’, but then he remembered. His suit was too small. 

He’d noticed it, in an abstract sort of way, when he was getting dressed. He was fast outgrowing all the clothes he had, and the suit jacket was especially tight. So tight, in fact, that he was unable to move his arms properly in it. Steve would never admit it, not to anyone, but he’d literally torn the jacket off and then kicked over his desk chair in a fit of useless rage. The only jacket he had that would actually fit him across the shoulders was a ratty leather jacket that used to be Buckys. It once belonged to Mr. Barnes, and if it had been large on Bucky, Steve used to drown in it. They’d been walking home from school on a ridiculously cold day just before the accident, and Bucky had draped it around Steves shivering form, before throwing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. 

‘Don’t worry Stevie, I’ll keep you warm,’ Bucky had said, leaning down to speak straight into Steves ear. He’d never asked for it back, and Steve had buried his nose in it until it stopped smelling of Bucky. He hadn’t touched it for weeks. Now, though, it was either wear the jacket or turn up to his own mothers funeral in just slacks and a dress shirt. Steve had shrugged it on to find that he no longer swam in it. Still didn’t fit right, but it was better than nothing. And, no matter what the disapproving looks of the congregation members in attendance said, he knew his mother would understand. Would have understood. 

Steve hadn’t given another thought to his clothes until everyone was inside the church, the first hymn sung, and they were seated at Father Kinsellas instruction. As he sat, he felt the hem of his suit pants ride up, what felt like, half of his calf. He sat there for the whole service, so completely aware of his exposed leg, that the actual funeral was a blur. The only bit he can really remember, apart from carrying the casket, was reaching into the inner pocket of the jacket and then pulling out and stumbling over the words of the eulogy he’d spent hours writing, perfecting. He’d rehearsed hundreds of times since he’d finished, but he still tripped over her name in the first line, over the word mother, his throat practically closing up. He managed to choke out the rest of it, not bothering with wiping away his tears, and sat down, once again conscious of his too short pant legs. 

He wondered, bleakly, if he’d have paid more attention if he hadn’t been sitting alone in the front row. There were other people sitting in the row as well of course, there were so many friends and colleagues and parishioners and ex-patients at the funeral that it became standing room only. But Steve was the only family there. What was left of his mothers already small family were killed after ’85 Anglo-Irish agreement. The ceasefire had done wonders for her mental health; Steve just wishes that it could have been enough for her body as well. There was no one to make him pay attention, to wipe away his tears, no one to ferry him away from the grave and back to the church for the wake which he should be attending. Steve ignored the man hovering near the entrance of the cemetery, because no matter what, he knew he’d just buried the last of his family and nothing that either of them could do would ever change that. 

-

Steve had seen him at the funeral, of course, standing in the back of the church like he’d arrived late, like he hadn’t arrived minutes after Steve. Steve had ignored him then, and had ignored him in the cemetery, and left the cemetery through the far gate and walked the long way home just so he didn’t have to look at him. Standing in a doorway, looking up at the man and surrounded by boxes of what was left of his life, Steve couldn’t ignore him if he tried. They had the same coloured hair, the same nose, and Steve could see what his jaw might look like when he finally stopped growing. Steve had blue eyes to the mans brown, longer hair, and his mother lips, but all he could think of when he looked at his father was, oh. 

(Steve was getting sick of those oh moments, the one which seemed to punch him in the gut harder than a fist ever had, that left him reeling and unsure which way was up.)

Because Joseph Rogers was almost twice his size, though Steve was growing more and more every day, and Steve looked just like him. He remembers that day in the kitchen when he’d tried to grab her hanky (tried to force a confrontation and, Jesus, he was a piece of shit. He’d forgotten, hadn’t wanted to remember, and she’d shied away from him, how could he have done that to her) and glares up at the man like he could kill him with a look. The broad man wouldn’t meet his eyes, however, and moved around Steve to get one of the boxes.

“Don’t.” Steve growled, grabbing the box closest to Joseph and picking it up, walking it through to his new room. It takes a while, but Steve finishes moving his things. He stands in his new room for a while, looks around at the bare walls, the boxes he should unpack, before leaving. He walks through the living room and towards the front door. Steve hears his father start to say something, but has the front door shut behind him before anything but meaningless sound can really register. He’s never been to East Harlem before, figures he should learn the layout of the place. 

He walks past three mail boxes before the letter in his pocket starts to burn. Finally he stopes and shoves the envelope in. Inside is not so much a letter as a few sentences scribbled almost illegibly on paper. 

Ma’s dead. Hope you’re not dead too. Here’s my new address. Please write me back, I can’t- 

Steve.

He keeps walking, wandering around the streets until the sunsets and he loses himself in an unfamiliar landscape. He spends a few blocks trying to convince himself that he’s not looking for a fight, and then wonders when he stopped fighting to protect people and started fighting to forget people. 

He finds a fight before he heads back to where his father lives and the same the next night. And the one after that, even though he starts his new school the next day, and most of the days after that as well. He has no fantasies about Joseph Rogers staying up late at night with worry in his heart, has no desire to see the familiar face anymore than he has to. 

He’s fiercely glad that his father can’t stand to look him in the eyes.

-

Steve knows he should be in school, even though most of his new teachers probably think he’s a delinquent by now, constantly showing up with bruises and sharp grin he doesn’t recognise in the mirror. The worst part is, Steve’s not sure if they’re wrong. But it’s a Friday, and more than that, it’s Buckys birthday. Steve can only imagine the things they would’ve gotten up to on Buckys seventeenth. Hopefully something different from his sixteenth, when they’d stolen two bottles of rotgut whiskey from George Barnes’ personal stash, and opened them after his Ma had gone to work. She had the night shift, and Steve and Bucky spent the night in his room, trying to drink away the emptiness caused by the absence of Winifred Barnes. 

They’d ended up curled around each other in Steves small single bed, drunk on whiskey and sorrow, as Bucky had sobbed into Steves neck. Steve wiped away their tears, and attempted to pull the blanket over them, but his hands weren’t quite working properly at this stage, and there was no way he was moving Bucky off his chest just to get a better grip on a blanket. They’d dozed through the night, waking in fits and starts. Steve remembers waking up in the early hours of the morning, sky just starting to lighten, Bucky clinging to him like a limpet whispering ‘never leave me’ over and over again.

If Steve didn’t know his father was ten year sober, he might’ve tried to drink his pain away. He’s sure he could find some way to get his hands on something that would burn just as much coming back up as it would going down, but he doesn’t want to. He knows where that path leads, lives with the man who walked down it. He just feels tired. He’s sick of being angry all the time, at Bucky, his father, even his Ma sometimes. He could go crawl inside a bottle to celebrate Buckys birthday, but Steve’s not sure he’ll ever find the strength to crawl out of it. He doesn’t even have the strength of crawl out of bed some mornings.

He finds a swing set to sit on around midday, somewhere between East Harlem and Harlem. He’s getting the hang of the streets, but doesn’t care enough to really learn his way around. He’ll find his way back to the apartment eventually. Or maybe not. Steve’s not to fussed either way. He stays on the swing until schools out and then heads further into the park; he doesn’t want to hog the swing for all the kids who probably come here after school. He finds a bench and sits down, waiting for something, anything, to kick him out of this rut of anger and hate and bone aching sadness that’s too deep for him to claw his way out of. Steve sits and thinks of what he’s done with himself since January. Since his Ma died. The answer is nothing, nothing productive at least. 

He’s bloodied his fists so much that Steve thinks she’d be ashamed of him. 

The light fades and distorts the shadows of the trees he’s sitting near, and slowly the park lights flicker on. Steve stands, facing the direction he knows the apartment is, sad blue eyes peering into the distance. It’s still Buckys birthday, and Steve wonders if he’ll make another decision he’ll regret if he goes home. He heaves a sigh and turns the other way, heading further into the park and then eventually out the other side. He stops at the nearest fish and chip shop and scarfs down a burger or two before continuing. He eats a hell of a lot more than he used to, but then, looking at his reflection as he passes by storefronts, he’s probably twice the size he was when Bucky left. Not even a full year and he’s practically unrecognisable.

He’s changed so much; it’s no wonder Bucky stopped writing. Steve would have stopped writing himself too. 

Steve wanders through Harlem, contemplating the path he’s on. His feet take him past a Catholic Church and Steve wonders if it’s a sign. He takes a step closer towards it, before crossing the street and trying to ignore the fact that he hasn’t been to church since his mothers funeral; that her rosary accuses him from the bottom of his underwear drawer where he’d put it so he didn’t have to think about the way she’d walked him through his prayers as a child. He winds up in another park, this one much smaller. His watch says that it’s still Buckys birthday, though not by much, and Steve decides that he’ll head home once it hits midnight.

He doesn’t.

He’s two streets away from the park, two streets in the opposite direction of the apartment, when he hears a woman shouting. He turns towards it and breaks into a jog because even though he fights to forget, and to feel, and for all the wrong reasons, he still knows how to put himself between bullies and someone weaker. He arrives and the two men harassing her are both smaller than he is. It’s a bit astounding, to say the least. He’s used to barrelling into protecting someone while looking up, and staring down at these two men, Steve almost doesn’t know what to do. Except they don’t back down and he knows exactly what to do. 

Afterwards, when he’s trying to wipe blood of his chin with already bloody knuckles, the woman he helped gives him a shaky smile and asks if he wouldn’t mind walking her to the next bus stop and waiting with her. They walk to the boulevard and, as they chat, Steve forgets, for a moment, all of the anger that’s been propelling him from fight to fight, and remembers what it’s like to fight for something worthwhile. Her name’s Sarah and she’s not supposed to be out this late, she has a family birthday tomorrow and her mum is ‘totally going to kill me, I can hear the lecture already.’ Steve keeps walking and thinks that that was what he was looking for, a purpose. Something to do with himself since there’s no one to keep him from trouble anymore (and, oh, what trouble he’s gotten into just by being alone) and he sees another church down the next street. 

At this time of night, he knows it’s probably not open, but he thinks that maybe if he sits on the steps, he might be able to give himself some time to sort his head out. He passes a few people as he walks towards the church, thankful no one wants to try anything with the large blonde. Steve thinks he might still be in shock from looking down at those men. He looks down now, past his torso, his long, jean clad legs, towards where his feet are beating a stead rhythm on the ground. A silly little giggle slips past his lips and he smiles, really smiles, for the first time in what is literally months. He’s tall. He laughs as he jogs up the church steps, and is still laughing as he reads the word ‘protestant’ and does an abrupt about face back the way he came.

-

Early Sunday morning finds Steve sitting in an alley, propped up against a wall. His entire face was pounding in time with his pulse. He has no idea how long he’d been there for, may have passed out at some point, but at least he’d won the fight. And he had actually been fighting for something, had been trying to find himself again, was trying so hard to be the kind of person that his Ma and Bucky could be proud of. He’d smiled all the way back to East Harlem and into bed on Saturday morning, filled with a sense of purpose. He’d forgotten, somehow, how good it felt to help other people. How rewarding it was to stand up for yourself and your beliefs. 

He’d spent his Saturday outside, helping people. He’d stopped a man from ripping off the hijab of the nice Iranian lady who lived a few doors down from him, though he was a bit more brutal about it than he would have been a year ago. He’d rescued a cat from a tree, grabbed a little girls balloon before it floated off completely, and broke up three fights peacefully instead of jumping in with his fists. 

And then, when it was so late he was thinking of heading home, he’d heard a dog howling from a nearby alley (and, really, why were there so many alley ways for him to find trouble in). He’d gone in to find a man, a huge wall of a man, hurting an old, one eyed dog. There was no chance Steve was leaving without that dog, he needed to take him to a vet, or to his owners if he had any, so Steve raised his chin and called out. It was only later, when he was going blow for blow with a man who was possibly double his size, that he wondered if he’d be leaving the alley at all. 

He’d won though. Steve didn’t know how long the fight took, long enough that his face felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, long enough for him to have probably broken his nose and a finger or two from trying to punch his way through the other mans skull, but eventually the other man had stumbled off, blood gushing from his nose, less a tooth, leaving Steve standing triumphant in an alley. Barely standing; he slid down the nearest wall as soon as he couldn’t hear footsteps anymore. The dog had crawled into his lap, licking at his fingers, and Steve simply sat there. He was attempting to wait until he could see straight but, as the sky started to lighten, Steve didn’t think that was going to happen anytime soon. 

The collar had an address on it, as well as ‘Pizza Dog,’ with a little arrow underneath. As he hauled himself upright, Steve hoped that that wasn’t the actual name of the dog. The dog had a hurt leg, possibly broken, so Steve picked the dog up and carried him out of the alley, regardless of how the extra weight pressed against the collection of bruises on his arms and chest. A few of them were already visible, blossoming dark against his fair skin, and Steve was certain that he’d be a riot of colour come Monday. Then everyone at his new school would think he was a delinquent, not that it mattered that much. He didn’t really have friends or a reputation to protect, anymore. 

Luckily the address was close by, so Steve found the apartment block as quick as he was able, walking carefully so he didn’t jostle the dog too much. Pressing the intercom button turned out to be a struggle. He didn’t particularly want to put the dog down, in case he, Pizza Dog, and really, what a stupid name, tried to walk on his injured leg, or got spooked by something and ran off, but he was not going to be able to lift his arm high enough to reach with the dog. He compromised by mashing his nose into, he hoped, the right button. He waited, patiently, before pressing the button again. A female voice came over the intercom, sleepy and annoyed.

“What.”

“Uh, I found your dog?” He didn’t mean it to sound like a question, but he’d been up all night, and his face was still throbbing, with his chest and arms now joining the chorus as well. 

“Be right down.” She said, and the intercom clicked off. Steve leant against the entry way, hopefully not accidentally pressing any other buttons, and watched the sun rising through the sky. For all that he’d been close to the address already, it had taken him a while to reach it, and the city was starting to wake up. 

A blond man soon tumbled out of the buildings entry with a cry of ‘Pizza Dog’, and, alright, it sounds a lot less stupid said with that much love and affection. Steve gently placed the dog on the ground. 

“Be careful of his front left leg, when I found him a man was kicking the hell out of him.” He warned, and the mans eyes instantly snapped to the front leg, before he finally looked up at Steve.

“Holy shit.” He breathed, and Steve shrugged.

“Don’t worry; he just punched the hell out of me.” It was supposed to be a joke, but maybe he’d fallen out of practice, because the blond man clearly didn’t find it funny. 

“Are you alright, man?” Steve honestly had no idea, so he just shrugged. 

“I’ve got to get going, so…” Steve trailed off, throwing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction he supposedly needed to be. No one had been concerned with how he looked since his mother, and he wasn’t sure how to feel with it coming from a stranger.

“Okay, sure. Thanks, I know he’s not much to look at, but he’s well loved. If you ever need anything, I’m Clint.” He held out his hand, and Steve shook it, nodding.

“It was nothing. I’m Steve, nice to meet you.”

-

Not even fifteen minutes later he was outside of another church. A few people were trickling inside, telling Steve that service would start soon. He’d almost gone into a church on Friday night, well, Saturday morning, protestant though it turned out to be, and Steve wondered if maybe he was ready to go back to church. He wasn’t completely sure if he was, but it didn’t really matter, because he was tired, sore through to the bone, and he was in the middle of Harlem. There was no way he was making it back to East Harlem soon. So he walked up the steps to the church, tried not to look anyone in the eye, and found a space on a pew in the back. He’s sure he looks dangerous, in torn clothes, blood probably still smeared around his nose and on his chin, a half wild thing in yesterdays clothes because he avoids home like it’s a physical need. If he doesn’t make eye contact, no one can ask him to leave.

Just before the priest starts the sermon, a young man sits down next to Steve. He’s got dark skin, and Steve sees a gap between his front teeth when he flashes Steve a smile. Steve tries to smile back, except his entire face hurts, so he’s pretty sure it looked more like a grimace than anything. The sermon starts and it takes a few moments before Steve realises that this is nothing like any church he’s ever been to. Soon enough, people are standing and clapping, singing along, and Steve’s just sitting on the pew in the back, blinking slowly, because he has no idea what’s going on.

“First time?” The voice is kind, and belongs to the black teen sitting next to him. Steve blinks again, thinks maybe he’s got a concussion, because he normally doesn’t have any trouble adapting to new situations, but this has throw him for a loop. 

“No, I’ve been to church before.” That gets a laugh, barely audible over the noise the rest of the congregation in making. 

“Sure, but I was talking about Gospel church.” Steve looks around again, at the smiling, happy faces, and thinks that it’s a good way to practice faith. He says as much.

“They look happy, and the priest doesn’t look like he’ll snap if you have a coughing fit in the middle of a sermon.” That gets another laugh, and Steve’s feeling better about his confusion already, even if the noise isn’t helping his headache at all.

“Minister, actually, not a priest. And this minister would be the first to offer you a cough drop.” Steve nods, and they lapse into silence for a while. He half wishes that he’d walked into a Catholic church, where the rhythmic droning of the priest wouldn’t aggravate his headache. Given how tired he was, it would also probably put him to sleep. Regardless of the differences, of the absence of a light, lilting voice singing hymns next to him, sitting in the back of a church he’s never seen before, surrounded by strangers, it’s the closest he’s felt to at peace since he finished sobbing his eyes out on his mothers empty bed. 

Steve has to re-evaluate the concussion theory when worship ends, because he could have sworn he sat down only a few minutes ago, and now people are leaving. He can hear them in the foyer he didn’t look at on his way in, and wondered if it would be alright for him to keep sitting for a few minutes before he was ready to walk home. A gentle touch on his shoulder brought Steve out of his reverie. 

“I’m Sam Wilson.” He says, hand extended, and Steve shakes his hand as he replies. Sam stands and gestures for Steve to follow him, walking towards the podium where the minister stands to deliver his sermon. Steve levers himself up and walks stiffly after him. Hopefully the walk home will limber him up, and he’ll be able to find some heat cream in one of the cupboards at home. Steve has no idea what Sam’s doing but he continues past the podium, without even the barest dip to cross himself, past where the choir had been only minutes before, past the statue of Jesus, and opens a door tucked away into the corner. 

“Sam,” He hisses, looking around to see if anyone’s watching, but everyone is out in the foyer talking, “come back!” Steve should just leave right now, he’s got a long walk home, but he’s still reluctant to turn away. He throws another look over his shoulder, before crossing himself and walking past the podium and following Sam through the door as quickly as he’s able. By the time Steve walks through the door, Sam’s found a first aid kit and has it open on the office desk, two chairs pulled around. 

“Sit down, Steve, you look like shit.” Sam says plainly, small smile still at the corner of his mouth for all his words are completely serious. Steve walks over and eases himself down into the chair like he’d done the pew, mindful of all the body shots he’d taken while simultaneously trying to protect his face and throw a punch. The first thing Sam pulls out looks like an antibacterial wipe which, considering how long Steve spent in that alley, is probably a good thing. Steve’d also caught a glimpse of his reflection, and somehow he’d gotten blood smeared up half his face, which was now dried and flaky. Sam didn’t seem fazed though, one hand on Steves chin as he calmly wiped away the blood and dirt.

“Thanks.” Steve mumbles around his split lip and his pride, and Sam smiles at him, continues to patch him up. Steve’s just glad that Sam hadn’t been planning anything nefarious, because he might have helped him just to see that smile. Even if the minister comes in, Steve’s pretty sure they won’t get in trouble. Hopes they won’t get in trouble. There’s really not much they can do for his face; it’s beat to hell but the only thing out of place is his nose, which Sam helps him to reset. Steve had, somehow, forgotten how much it hurt.

“You’ve had your nose broken before?” Sams’ incredulous expression does nothing but make Steve laugh, which hurts his bruised ribs.

“Yeah, fingers and ribs as well.” Sam, who’d noticed Steves winced laugh, frowns even as he pushes Steve shirt up.

“Those’re some nasty bruises. What’d you do, fight every punk in Harlem?” He asks, gentle fingers probing over ribs.

“Haven’t had time to fight all of them yet. Got most of the ones in Brooklyn, though.” Steve tries to joke (half jokes) again, but Sam just gives him a look and hums thoughtfully. 

“My ribs are fine. No breaks or fractures, just bruises.” Sam nods, but keeps inspecting Steves chest, and Steve realises that Sam, very, very attractive Sam, is practically stroking his chest. He’s suddenly grateful for the mottled colour all over his face because it means no one can see his blush. If Sam keeps touching him so carefully, though, it’s going to spread down his neck and across his chest. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on which part of Steve’s doing the thinking, Sam pulls back after a few moments and Steve’s able to yank his shirt down. Together they pack up the first aid kit and tidy the office, before they head back out to the church proper. 

“I’ve got to get home and help Mum prepare and cook for Sunday dinner. You could come, if you want?” Sam asks as they meander towards the exit. Steve is tempted, honestly tempted, because he’s pretty sure Sam is one of the nicest people he’s ever met, and maybe he could have a friend again, but he’s so tired he’d probably fall face first into whatever meal was put in front of him.

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to get home. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” Steve confesses. Sam looks like he wants t say something, but just ends up nodding his head.

“What are you doing next Friday?” Sam asks instead, and Steve shakes his head with a smile. He never does anything but get into fights anymore, but he doesn’t say that because he has a feeling that it’ll only make Sam frown again.

“School, that’s about it.” 

“Meet me out the front of the church at half past three?” Sam asks and Steve nods, even though he’ll have to cut last period in order to get from East Harlem to Harlem on time. 

“Sure. Sounds great, I’ll see you then?” Sam nods and then Steve’s heading home, smile on his face once more. It takes him a few painful hours to get home since he didn’t think to bring money for a bus, and he stumbles past the heavy gaze of his father before finally getting to bed.

-

Steve honestly means to tell Sam that he doesn’t live in Harlem. He does, but they have so many other things to talk about and do, it just always slips his mind. He remembers that he needs to tell Sam when he’s getting up at half past five on a Saturday so he and Sam can run together through the park, but forgets when they’re laughing on a park bench later. Sam convinces him to join his local gym; Steve gets his father to sign the paperwork, and gets a raised eyebrow from the man he hands the papers in to when he sees the listed address. They hang out after school when they can, and on weekends, and every Sunday Steve ends up back in the church where he first met Sam.

He’s pretty sure Sam thinks he doesn’t notice that they’re getting closer and closer to the front of the church every time he goes, but he notices. He keeps getting invites to the Wilson Sunday dinners, which apparently is a huge affair where every Wilson who lives in Harlem, and even a few who don’t (and a few people who aren’t even Wilsons at all) congregate at Sams house and eat and talk and laugh until late. 

“You wouldn’t have to worry about getting home, either, Mum says you can sleep over.” Steve smiles each time Sam says it, trying hard not to blush because he may or may not be developing a huge crush on his friend. 

Steve writes a letter to Bucky about it, the first letter since the barely letter he’d sent about his mothers death, and this time he doesn’t bother to censor it. Bucky’s obviously not interested in his letters anymore, so it’s an easy way to work through his thoughts and, if Bucky is reading them, maybe reading about Steve’s ridiculous crush on both him and his new friend will finally be enough to get him to write back. 

-

Steve’s walking back from church one Sunday when there’s a bark and then a heavy mass barrels into his leg, practically knocking him over. A mortified voice calls out an apology as Steve crouches down and pets the familiarly mangy dog that’s enthusiastically wagging his tale.

“I am so sorry, he normally never does that, and that sounds like a lie, but I swear it’s the t- Steve?” Steve looks up and, standing there barely out of breathe from his sprint after the dog, is Clint. Steve pats Pizza Dog on the head once more, before handing Clint the leash. He hadn’t thought much about Clint, or Pizza Dog, since he’d met them, apart from occasionally musing on the terrible naming powers of Clint. Steve would literally laugh until he cried when he found out Clint’s full name, and the apparently inherited gene of terrible names.

“Hey Clint, how’ve you been?” Steve asks as he stands, running a hand through his hair, which really needed a cut. 

“Holy shit, you’re hot.” Steve’s not sure who was blushing more, because Clints pale face had turned terribly pink and splotchy, clashing horrendously with his purple shirt, but Steve could feel his ears heat up and spread across his cheeks and neck and down to his chest too.

“Okay, I didn’t mean to say that, I don’t normally go for guys, it’s just that last time I saw you your entire face was a massive bruise, and I’m pretty sure you had blood for war paint.” Steve laughed as Clint stumbled through some sort of explanation and rubbed the back of his head. 

“Yeah, I did look pretty terrible, and I had to get my friend to reset my nose, but it’s all healed up now.” Clint nodded, and they both shuffled from side to side for a few minutes, silent and awkward.

“Actually, did you want to grab a coffee or something?” Clint asked, before his eyes widened, and he held up his hands.

“Not as a date! I know I said you were hot, but like I said, I’m pretty much mainly into women, and also I don’t have time for a relationship right now because I’m training for the Olympics. So like, friend coffee?” Clint ended his explanation with some combination of a wince and a grimace, and Steve laughed, nodding.

“Friend coffee sounds fine. You said you’re training for the Olympics? What in?” They headed towards the nearest coffee shop, and Steve’s pretty sure he’s made another friend.

(They get turned away from three coffee shops before they take turns waiting outside with Pizza Dog while the other orders.

When Steve tells him, Sam laughs for at least five minutes.)

-

Eventually, Steve gets suckered into visiting the Sams house, and it is quite a nice house. Steve had been consistently reluctant to go back there after church for dinner, for a number of reasons. He didn’t want to impose, for one, regardless of how many times Sam invited him. Steves main reason, one he didn’t like to think about, was that the last time he’d had a large family dinner was with the Barnes family, with Buckys smug grin seated next to him for the whole night, and… his ma, smiling as much as Bucky was, without the hollows in her face and the sickness in her voice. Hell, he hadn’t actually had a sit down dinner with anyone since before his mother died. 

Steve didn’t even know what time his father ate dinner, had accidentally set a routine when he’d first moved in and couldn’t stand to be in the apartment any longer than he had to be. He found his dinner in the fridge, covered in cling wrap, there was milk and cereal for breakfast and lunch money on the kitchen counter when he got up for school. When he thought about it (late at night, in a bed he was still struggling to sleep in, thinking about the man snoring one thin wall away from him) it wasn’t really a large change of pace from when he’d been living at home. He’d eaten cereal for breakfast, usually bought his lunch, though occasionally, when she hadn’t had a late shift the night before, he’d get to take a sandwich to school. And there was usually dinner in the fridge, because she’d almost always had night shifts, and Steve would make a plate up for her so she’d eat something before she went to bed.

So Steve was wary about Sunday dinners, wondering if he’d seat himself at the Wilsons table, overflowing with people and laughter, and be sucked into a downwards spiral thinking about everything he’d lost. It was Saturday morning, however, so when Sam suggested they go to his house to clean up properly after their run for once, instead of sitting on a bench until their sweat dried and then showering in deodorant, Steve had agreed. 

Walking into the Wilson house, however, they were both greeted by the delicious smell of cooking breakfast. Steve found a clock and was stunned to find it was only half past eight. By the time he gets home on Saturdays, it always much closer to lunch. Sometimes after lunch if they do something else after. Sam called out to his parents, and dragged Steve further into the house and towards the kitchen. 

“We’re gonna go have a shower. Steve was glad he wasn’t in the kitchen yet, because Sam had said it like they were going to have a shower together and Steve might (definitely) want that a lot. They finally reached the kitchen and Steve blinked in muted shock because sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper, was the church minister who delivered all the Sunday sermons. 

“Mum, Dad, this is Steve.” Minister Paul Wilson, and how hadn’t Steve noticed the shared last name before, smiled broadly at Steve as they were introduced. 

“Breakfast should be ready by the time you’re done. Wake your sister up once you’re done.” Mrs. Wilson, ‘Call me Darlene, Steve,’ said and they made their way out of the kitchen and towards Sams room. Sam showed him the bathroom and the taps, got him a towel as well as some of his older brothers clothes which had been left behind when he moved for college. Half hour later, sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and making small talk with his friends parents, Steve realised that this was a set up. Sam had, finally, managed to bring him around for a meal. And, with Mrs. Wilsons happy laugh and infectious smile, Steve was having a hard time fending off an invitation to Sunday dinner. 

In fact, by the time Sam got back with his sister in tow, Steve had agreed to come to tomorrows Sunday dinner, and had an open invitation to all Sunday dinners in the foreseeable future. Sam sat next to him, and only smiled innocently at the kick Steve gave him. Sams older sister sat on his other side, before raising an eyebrow. 

“Steve?” She asked, and Steve furrowed his brow in return, because he didn’t really know anyone in Harlem that well, but he recognised her face after a few seconds, though she looked a bit different with the morning sun lighting her up instead of yellow street lights.

“Sarah? How have you been?” He hoped she’d been taking better routes home since he’d first met her, or at least wasn’t trying to walk home alone anymore, and from her eye roll, he’s pretty sure that it was written all over his face. 

“Good, I’m almost finished with senior year.” Steve smiled, turning back to his plate, only to be on the receiving end of three more raised eyebrows. Suddenly feeling awkward, he looked back to Sarah who made a face at him. 

“I met Steve a while ago, actually.” She answered the unasked question, and Steve returned to his bacon, content to let her explain the situation.

“Remember when I came home really late, and you gave me that lecture about how it wasn’t safe for me to be walking around at night? And I said that I’d been perfectly safe?” Darlene nodded and narrowed her eyes, and Sarah cleared her throat before she took a sip f juice and continued.

“Well, I may have lied. These two guys tried to corner me but then, out of nowhere, Steve rushes in and tells them to back off, then he walks me to the bus stop.” She says, nodding like that’s all there was to it. Steve keeps his eyes on his plate because, as he’s been consistently told by his ma, Bucky and now Sam, he’s a truly terrible liar when people know him. Paul and Darlene seem ready to accept what Sarah said, but Steve can keep Sams eyes on the side of his face and, in return, the tips of his ears are starting to heat up. Steve can feel himself starting to crack and Sam hasn’t done more than look at him.

“Steve.” Sam says, voice flat, and Steve makes a terrible mistake in looking up at him. 

“Those guys just left, huh?” Steve blurts out a ‘no’ before he really registers it, and hears Sarah’s sigh of ‘whipped’ on his other side. Sam smiles at him, though, and Steve finds he doesn’t really care. 

-

Steve’s gotten into surprisingly little fights since he started to hang out with Sam, and they few he’s gotten into have all been a case of him attempting to end some kind of altercation, or returning someones purse. This fight started out that way, him stepping in between a pair of teen girls holding hands and an older man wearing a tracksuit. He’d tried to walk away after the girls had left, but the man had stalled him and, after a few minutes, Steve was surrounded by men wearing the same tracksuits. Now, Steve himself wasn’t particularly fashionable, especially since he was quickly and consistently outgrowing all his clothes, but even he knew that so many guys wearing the exact same thing was some sort of fashion disaster. 

Before Steve could say anything to that effect, however, a familiar voice did it for him. Clint strolled into the circle like it was a good idea, probably trying to smile at the gang they found themselves in the middle of, but it came off as a smirk. Clints attempt to talk their way out of the situation was, categorically, the worst attempt Steve has ever heard in his life. 

Half hour later, Steve and Clint were hoofing it through the streets, black eyed and bloody and laughing way too hard to be running effectively. 

-

Steve spends the anniversary of Bucky leaving in Brooklyn. He goes to the alley where they first met, walks past his old apartment, then Buckys. Sits on the park swings Bucky would push him on when they were children, stares at the sky for a while. He wonders what Bucky has been doing since he moved, if he’s okay; tries desperately not to return to the downwards spiral of ‘why did he stop writing me?’ Fails so miserably that when he shows up at Sams doorstep three hours later, Darlene doesn’t even say anything before she pulls him into a hug. 

He gets a hug from every member for the Wilson family present as he makes his way through the house to Sams room, and wonders just how bad he looks. 

He gets his answer when Sam comes out of his room and stops, stares for a second, before ushering him in and closing the door. 

\- 

When Clint got picked for the American archery squad for the Olympics, they held a ridiculous party. Kate supplied the alcohol, rolling her eyes when she said her father wouldn’t miss it, while Sam and Steve brought the food. They’d utilized the Wilsons kitchen and, with a bit of help from Darlene, they managed to successfully cook some party food. Steve already knew how to cook, but he was in awe of the way Sam and his mother moved seamlessly about the kitchen.

What Clint brought to the party, apart from hosting at his apartment and his ridiculously enthusiastic self, was his bow and quiver. They started off the night with Clint doing trick shots in his living room, and ended the night with both Clint and Kate, probably too drunk to be holding a weapon, doing trick shots in the living room. Kate was determinedly trying to one up Clint since she was just too young to compete at the Olympics, and they were both taking shots between each turn. 

Steve was barely paying attention to them, however, because Sam was, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, a clingy and affectionate drunk. Steve was sprawled out on the ratty couch, almost getting too big to do so comfortable, with Sam spread out on top of him. The archers had teased them mercilessly when Sam first snuggled into Steve, but that was an hour and a half ago and they’d long since given up in favour of ribbing each other. 

Steve had been thankful for the teasing, as it had taken his mind off the fact that Sam was literally plastered to his front, hands patting over Steves arms and chest, exclaiming about how nice Steve was. Eventually Sam had drifted off, thankfully before noticing that Steve was beginning to get uncomfortably hard in his jeans, but that left Steve with a whole new problem. Sam was still pressed up against him, dead weight now, and he’d drifted off with his head in the crook of Steves neck. His gentle breath was making a rhythmic assault on Steves senses, doing absolutely nothing to kill his erection.

-

He woke up in the morning wrapped impossibly around Sam, half off the couch small couch; twined together. He laid there for a good half hour before Sam started to stir. Sam opened his brown eyes and smiled at him, and Steve felt his heart stutter in his chest as he smiled back.

-

Steve turned sixteen without much fanfare. Clint volunteered his place for a party, and Steve spent the day inside the small apartment with Clint, Sam and Kate, who’d been the person to answer the intercom when Steve had returned Pizza Dog, as Clint didn’t sleep with his hearing aids in, and had completely missed the buzzing sound. He got a few new sketch books, some art supplies, and a tracksuit in a truly horrifying and familiar shade of yellow from Clint. 

When he arrived home, late enough that he probably should have taken Clint up on his offer of a couch, Steve was surprised to find his father waiting up for him, sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, the faint light from outside silhouetting him. After a moment of complete silence, Joseph gestured to one of the other chairs in the kitchen and, at a loss, Steve obliged and sat down across from him. The silence continued to stretch, neither of them fidgeting or even really looking at each other. Eventually, after what could have been five minutes or an hour, the older man broke the silence.

“I know I’ve been, ah…” He stalled, before falling silence again, biting his lip. 

“You won’t look me in the eye.” Steve says before he really thinks about it, unaware that it had been bothering him. He’d always assumed that he liked it, liked that his father was so obviously ashamed of himself, but his tone of voice says otherwise. He scratches at the table top, keeping his eyes on his fingers as his father looks at him.

“I think this is the first time you’ve spoken to me for a month. Longer.” Steve hadn’t know he’d disliked that, either. It bothered him sometimes, sure, that it was so silent in the house, even with the radio or TV in the background. The air in the apartment was constantly ringing with the past, and Steve wondered if it stopped his father from sleeping at night as well. 

“I was afraid I’d say the wrong thing, Steve.” And Steve wanted to say something cutting about Joseph being the one afraid, say something that would stop this conversation dead. They’d barely even started the conversation and Steve had already had two unwanted revelations, who knows what would happen if they continued to talk. But he didn’t. 

“When you first came here I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do, because not only had I not seen you for…” he trails off momentarily, but they’re both thinking of the same thing. The last time they’d seen each other before the funeral was in the apartment the three of them had lived in, with the pervasive smell of alcohol clinging to everything, and Steve as he’d once been, tiny and constantly sick, standing in front of his mothers already battered form. Blue and red lights shining through the kitchen window, illuminating more than just a ruined kitchen. The last time Steve had seen his father, he was being handcuffed and led away. 

Joseph licks his lips, and Steve raises his head to meet his eyes. 

“You were so angry. At first I thought it was just at me, and that’s perfectly understandable. If I’d been sent back to live with my Da when I was your age, one of us would’ve been dead before the week was up.” Steve remembers only a few things from when he was young, apart from the last time he’d seen his father, but one of the clearest memories is of his mother trying to rationalise and explain why she’d just taken a beating. Steve knew about what it had been like for his father as a child, before he’d run off, and he wondered if Joseph had sworn never to be like his father. If Steve would break his promise as well. 

“But then I’d see you sometimes, coming home or going our again, and you were black and blue. I wanted to say something, but I was afraid that would only make it worse. Imagine me trying to tell you to stop getting into fights.” Steve could only imagine what would have happened if this conversation had happened a few months ago; he probably would have thrown a punch at his old man.

“I just, I don’t want to see you repeating my mistakes, Steve.” Joseph sighed, his brown eyes sad, and Steve wondered if this rift could ever be fixed. If he wanted to fix it. 

“I was, uh, I mean, I’ve always gotten into fights. It was just worse after, and before she – I wasn’t too good then either. I mean, shit.” Steve wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, really. Tried to think of a way to demonstrate how he would never be like his father, but tripped over his tongue and secrets spilled out before he noticed.

“She flinched away from me, one time. I was just reaching for her sleeve, and she sprang back like I was gonna…” Steve looked away then, feeling as dead on the inside as he had when it had first happened. 

“A decade since anyone hit her, but I look so much like you, and I was starting to grow bigger as well. I guess she saw me move out the corner of her eye and, I dunno, just reacted.” Steve shook his head, running his hands through his hair, before leaning back as much as he could in the kitchen chair.

“She deserved so much better than me.” Joseph said, leaning back from the table as well, fiddling with the wedding ring still around his finger. Steve looked away from it, still bitter about the fact that his mother had never taken her off either.

“I’d always hoped that she’d find someone else, someone who’d treat her like she deserved, but she never did, did she?” He asked, still running his fingers over the ring, and Steve shook his head.

“She loved you, refused to even think about trying to find someone else. It always frustrated me so much, made me so angry at you. How could she still love you, after everything? I don’t understand.” He was still frustrated about it, and it showed in his voice. 

“Aye, I never understood either. I love her, loved her, but I wasn’t good for her. Even before,” another pause, “before the alcoholism, before we left Ireland, I knew she could do better.” He fiddled with the coffee mug in front f him as if he were contemplating taking a sip of whatever stone cold coffee was left. 

“But from the moment she laid eyes on me, that was it, according to her. She stuck by me even when I’d come home with blood and ash staining my clothes, held me when I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. And when we left Ireland I thought that it was a new start, away from the fighting and the violence. But I couldn’t let it go; thousands of miles away, surrounded by love, and all I could think of was what I’d already done. What I’d left behind.” Steve hadn’t heard this before, hadn’t known to press when his mother had tried to explain when he was young, hadn’t wanted to when he was older. 

“So I found solace in a bottle instead of your mother, and she tried to get me to talk to someone, but I never could. Kept it inside until I snapped one day and she was right there, my beautiful girl, and I couldn’t stop.” He looks away from the wall he’d been staring blankly at while speaking, looking Steve straight in the eye. 

“I thank God every day that you stepped in front of her, screamed until someone called the cops. Cause I wouldn’t have stopped. I was so drunk that I almost chocked on my own vomit in the back of the police car, and it took me almost a day to sober up fully. I would have kept going until she was dead, and she still would have taken me back.” There were tears in his eyes now, and Steve could feel his own throat tightening up because she would have. She loved him so much, that he could have shown up on their doorstep anytime between then and when she’d died, and all she would have done was opened her arms.

“So why didn’t you come back?” Steve’s glad he didn’t, so glad, but he knew that it had hurt his mother. Joseph Barnes had come in while they were both out, a few days later, taken all of his things and left his key. No note, no phone call, nothing but regular alimony payments that he didn’t have to pay because they never legally divorced.

“Every time after I sobered up I’d tell myself that that was it, no more. I wasn’t going to have another drink. I’d hear Sarah talking to you, sometimes, trying to explain it away, and all I would be able to think of was my Ma doing the exact same for me. She’d come in, beat to hell, while that bastard was passed out on the lounge, and take me out of the cupboard she’d stuff me in until she thought it was safe. She would hold me and tell me everything would be alright, and she’d be so convinced that, when I was young, I’d believe her, until the next time when I listened to it all from inside a bloody cupboard.” Out of the kitchen window, Steve could see that the black of the night was starting to recede, ever so slightly, and did his best to ignore the tears running down his fathers face, into the beard he’d been growing for the last few months.

“When I was thirteen, my ma hung herself. I came home from school and the cops were already there, so was my Da, shoutin’ his head off. She was already on the gurney when I got there, and he was barely able to stand, but he was still trying to get at her corpse, screaming at her like she was alive to be afraid of him. Under my pillow I found an envelope stuffed full of money, and a note from her. She apologised, said she was sorry that she couldn’t hold on, sorry she was gone, and telling me to take the money and get as far away as I possibly could. I was gone before my Da was outta the drunk tank that night.

“So, when I woke up in gaol, I knew I couldn’t go back. I knew I was just like him, that bastard that drove my ma to her death, and I didn’t want to be. Didn’t want to come home from work one day to find Sarah had,” he rubbed a large hand over his face, smearing the tears, “that I’d driven her to that. She was the love of my life, and I was trapped inside some nightmarish future I’d once sworn off. So I waited until you left, and I took my things and tried not to look back. Signed up to the first AA meeting I came across. I thought that, maybe once I was sober, I could go back. But every time I thought about it, I thought about what I’d done, and I fucking stayed away, because I don’t deserve any part of her life, or yours.” Steve nodded, brushing away his own tears.

“I’d see you walking through here with blood on your knuckles and on your teeth, and I’d hope that you’d find some way to stop. And then a few months ago you came walking in here like I’d never seen you before. You were beat so much I thought you’d need a hospital, one giant bruise that had juts walked into my living room, but you had a grin stretched right across your face. I thought that that was it, you’d gone and done something you’d regret for the rest of your life – or worse, not regret. There’s very few reasons people smile that wide with a face that busted up, and all I could think of was that you’d won that fight, but at what cost? If you’d won looking like that, what the hell did the other guy look like?

“And then it just stopped. You healed up, and still came home with the occasional black eye, but all the anger you’d been holding onto, it’s like you just … let it slip through your fingers like water. And I don’t know what snapped you out of it, how you’re able to let that anger go in a way that, honestly, I still can’t, but I am so fucking grateful, Steve.” Steve gave a laugh that he’d deny was watery if anyone ever asked, and shook his head.

“There was a man in an alley, and he was kicking this dog. Broke its leg. So I got between him and the dog until, basically, he got sick of beating the shit out of me. I tried to fight back, but he was twice my size. I got a few got hits in, probably broke his nose, maybe a rib, but eventually he just walked away. And I sat in that alley until I could move, and carried the dog back to its owner.” Joseph smiled, teeth flashing in the slowly lightening room, and he chuckled. 

“That is in the top three best things I’ve ever heard; a three way tie between that, Sarah saying ‘I do’ and finding out you were born safe.” Steve smiled back, almost laughing as well, because he was so thankful that he saved that dog, that he’d met Clint and Sam; that he wasn’t still roaming the streets at night, looking for a fight.

“After that, I went to a church up in Harlem; it’s where I go every Sunday. It’s not Catholic, but I like it.” Joseph nodded. 

“Not protestant?” He asked, and Steve shook his head. He wasn’t born in Ireland, but the conflict had shaped almost every aspect of his life.

“Not a chance.” Joseph smiled, getting up to empty and refill his mug. The first rays of predawn light were filtering through the windows, pushing the gloom of the night out of the way.

“I hated you for so long, you know?” It wasn’t really a question, and Joseph didn’t answer, just continued to quietly make coffee.

“I would see her wedding ring and think of what you did and how she still loved you, and hate you. I’d see her looking at photos of you, think of her trying to explain why she was bruised up, and I’d get so angry that I almost exploded. She flinched away from me and after I stopped feeling numb, I hated you even more; I didn’t even know I could hate that much. And then, after Bucky moved away, when she started to get sick, all I could feel was anger. After she died, God, I was- I was angry at everything. And when I wasn’t angry, I was either so sad I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning or numb enough that I didn’t eat for days. Numb enough that the only time I could feel was when I was in a fight.” Steve accepted the mug his father offered him, warming his hands with it.

“And I would lay in bed and think, ‘Is this who I am?’ Am I nothing but anger and hate and sadness? I would ask myself how I stop it, ‘cause it’s a cycle, and it just wouldn’t end. And there were points where I stopped caring that I was getting worse, that my knuckles were getting calluses because I’d split them open on somebody’s face so many times. I wouldn’t come home at night because I’d see you, and all I could see was myself in twenty years if I didn’t snap out of it. But I couldn’t, I just, I kept going. I always used to get into fights because I couldn’t stand bullies, couldn’t walk past when someone was getting hurt, and suddenly I was starting fights. Walking into situations where I knew I’d get a fight, provoking fights. 

“And I’d come back here and look at you and taste blood in my mouth and, fuck, I didn’t even know what I thought. I wanted it to be your fault somehow, that I was turning into someone I never wanted to be. I was fifteen and friendless and no matter how angry I got, I got worse when I looked at you, and you wouldn’t look me in the eyes, and I knew that I couldn’t blame it on you. I was turning into you, but it was my fault. I would sit in my bed, and think that she’d be so ashamed of me. And the worst part is, she wouldn’t care, she’d still love me and tell me everything was going to be fine. I’d look at the wall separating our rooms and just think, I am exactly like you.” They were both sitting at the table again, and Steve wasn’t crying, he wasn’t, but his hands were shaking, and his eyes were burning, and he wanted to look anywhere but the understanding eyes of his father, but couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“And then I helped a girl get home safe, and I saved Pizza Dog, and I walked into a church with blood all over my face and somehow Sam sat down next to me and decided that I was better than all the anger and the hate and cleaned me up. He doesn’t know it, and I don’t like to think about it, but if I’d walked out of that church without his friendship, I know I would have ended up right where I started. Because I would have gone out again, maybe even trying to help people, but I would still be friendless, still holding all that anger like it’s fused to my bones. Trying to, I don’t even know, beat my anger out.” 

Steve stopped fiddling with his mug and took a drink, trying to wet his dry throat. It was harder to swallow around the tears that he’d anticipated, and he ended up muffling his tears into the crook of his arm. After a few seconds, a large palm started to gently rub his back. Steve tried to hold back his tears, but it only made him sob harder, curling in on himself until the rest of the room was hidden by his fringe and his arm. Eventually the tears slowed and Steve sat up again, accepting the handkerchief his father handed him to wipe away the last of the tears and blow his nose. He stared down at the soiled hanky, and almost smiled at the ‘S.R’ embroidered in the corner. 

“I don’t forgive you for what you did.” Steve said, speaking at the hanky instead of his father who was still pressing a comforting hand to his back. 

“I can’t ever forgive that, or forget it. But I understand the rest of it. How you can’t let go of it, how you spiral down until you look around and wonder when the hell you sunk so low. We’re not good, I don’t think we’ll ever be, but we can be okay, I think.” He finally looked up to his father, the early morning light reflecting off his tear tracks, and Joseph nodded at him.

“I didn’t start this conversation because I wanted your forgiveness, I don’t deserve it, and I wasn’t hoping for a better relationship, because I don’t rightly deserve that either, but I am glad about that. I did it because I wanted you to know how worried I was and how proud I am, regardless of how little that meant to you. And I am, Steve, I’m so proud of you.” They stayed there, Steve sitting in the chair, his mothers’ old hanky held carefully in his hands, his father standing next to him, until Josephs alarm echoed through the apartment.

-

“We could go to my place, if you want?” Steve offered, and Sam raised an eyebrow as they walked through the park. The day was heating up, and usually they’d head back to Sams place, but his older brother Gideon was back from college for the summer, which meant Sam was back to sharing a room. He didn’t seem to mind overly much, he’d suffered through sharing a room with his brother for most of his life, after all, but after having the room to himself for the past year, he was feeling a bit claustrophobic. 

“I don’t want you to feel pressured to stay in an environment you’re not comfortable in, Steve.” Sam kept his tone carefully neutral, and Steve wondered what the hell he meant. 

“You just don’t seem to be too comfortable going home, man. Or talking about your home, or your family. You get a bit uncomfortable when the subject of where you live even comes up.” Steve shrugged under Sams watching eyes, licking his lips, knowing the last concern would be the easiest and also most embarrassing to address.

“Nah, it’s okay. It was rough for a while, when I first moved in after my Ma… passed, but we’ve got it sorted now.” Sam watched him for a few moments longer, before nodding. 

“Alright. Where do you live, anyway?” He asked, and Steve could not have stopped the blush if he tried. 

“Ah, well, about that…” 

Sam was completely unimpressed when he found out how early Steve had to get up, sometimes, to meet him on time. Not to mention,

“Wait, does that mean you’re going to the Catholic school in East Harlem? How many times have you cut class to meet me by half past three?” Steves reddening face and ears gave him away before he could open his mouth.

-

They (somehow) manage to get tickets to the archery portion to the Olympics, the three of them thankful it was held in America for the year, and don’t tell Clint. He thinks they’re watching it on the TV, though he finds out once he advances through the preliminary round, because not only are they shouting loud enough to put everyone else to shame, but they’ve got a giant banner unfurled which doesn’t have words big enough to read from a distance, but instead has a large painting of Pizza Dog watching TV.

He can’t leave the Olympic village, especially not when he has the semi-finals and then (hopefully) the finals the day after, but once his event is over, he jogs up into the stands and gives them all monstrous hugs. He gets to read the small print of the banner, and smiles at the heartfelt ‘Clinton Barton, he’s our man!’ painted in Sams neat writing. He thinks there might be something on the back, but they won’t let him see it.

He sees it two days later when he wins gold and they somehow manage, while shouting and screaming and generally making happy fools of themselves, to flip the banner over. 

‘Congrats on the gold!’ is painted in purple Steves huge, scrawling handwriting. 

“What would you do if I hadn’t won?” He asks them during dinner later that night, just before the three of them leave to go back to New York.

“Never, ever told you.” Kate replies solemnly, smirking all the while. 

-

Sam turns sixteen just before school goes back, and Sams birthday party sprawls throughout their house, into their back yard and onto the street. Steve, Clint and Kate get to meet a parade of Sams relatives and other friends, and then neighbours, and Steve gets properly introduced to what feels like the entire congregation. Clint reluctantly acknowledges that it might, might, be better than his Olympic acceptance party, but definitely not better than the ‘I won gold’ party he’d hosted once he got back from Atlanta. 

Steve admits that’s it a really good party; the food is wonderful and the music is good, everyone is nice and having a great time, and none of the neighbours call in a noise complaint because they’re all at the party as well. Quietly, though, he likes Clints parties the best, because both ended with he and Sam curled up on Clints couch, twisted together.

-

The start of the school term flies by and, before Steve knows it, the anniversary of Winifred Barnes’ death approaches. He still hasn’t really told Sam about Bucky. Doesn’t know what he’d say. ‘I was in love with my best friend, his mother died and his father moved them all to Russia a few months later. He stopped writing, and every year I visit his mothers’ grave. By the way, that time I showed up at your house out of the blue in tears and wouldn’t say anything for hours was the anniversary of his flight outta Brooklyn, thanks for not pushing and just cuddling me for two hours straight.’ 

Yeah, no, Steve wasn’t ready to tell anyone that, certainly not his new best friend. Definitely not his new best friend he has a crush on. Steve’s starting to think he has a type. Kind, gorgeous, best friend, so far out of his league it’s laughable.

So he sits at Winifred Barnes’ grave in his school uniform and does his best to fix the neglect of a year. He rips up the weeds that have sprouted at the bottom of her grave and does his best to scrub off the small bits of graffiti and dirt which have wound up on the stone. When he’s done, he just sits there, staring at the stone, doing his best not to think of anything. There’s still a few hours left before the end of school, but he stands, places a kiss on the gravestone, before walking further into the cemetery. 

He finds the grave he’s looking for so easily he almost doesn’t believe that it’s been months since he last visited. He used to make the trip every week, sometimes skipping whole days of school, just like he was now. But time moved on, he lost himself in the streets of Harlem, and then found himself again and, along the way, he’d forgotten to visit. 

Guilt eats at his chest as he seats himself in front of the grave and starts to pull up the weeds which have grown. He scrubs the grave until it’s shining. He sits there until the sun ducks beyond the horizon and the street lights start to flicker on in the distance. Until his clothes start to get heavy with dew, and he’s struggling to stay awake. Only stands once the sky starts to light up behind him.

He stumbles through the front door of his apartment in tears and meets his father on his way out for work. He gets pulled into a hug and then put to bed, listening to Joseph call the school to inform them of his absence as he drifts off to sleep. 

\- 

Steve still sends letters to Bucky, very occasionally. Sometimes when he’s angry and bitter and his options are either write to his absentee friend or go out looking for a fight; he thinks Bucky would have approved of his choice had they still been friends. Sometimes when he’s sad or melancholy, when he wants to talk to someone but doesn’t want to burden them with his heavy thoughts. In between all that, however, there are a few letters written when he’s happy. One just after Clint won gold, and from what he remembers he’d pretty much wrote in capital letters, to excited to even try cursive. Another from when he reconciled with his father, though he’s not as excited in that one, or as happy. 

It seems like he still turns to Bucky for all the important events in his life, even if just on paper. He tries not to think about if Bucky even receives the letters anymore, just writes until he runs out of words. 

He almost doesn’t send the letter he’s written, this time. Thinks maybe he should just tear up the letter and throw it in the bin, like he used to do with his first drafts filled with love declarations. 

But it’s a relief to have it all written out, even if some of it’s illegible, scrawled in his untidy handwriting, with a few tears over the top. It’s January again, and he’d written the letter sitting in front of his mother grave, rugged up in Buckys old leather jacket, struggling to write through the thick mittens. 

He takes off his mittens to write Buckys last known address on the front in what he hopes is legible Cyrillic. He’d been trying to learn Russian once, before Bucky had left, before he’d stopped writing. He still remembered bits and pieces, sometimes takes a walk through the areas with a heavy Russian population, but he’d given up actually learning. Clint was teaching him American Sign Language, now, and he was infinitely better at that. 

Steve throws it in the letter box on his way home before he really has time to second guess himself. Swears he won’t write yet another tear filled letter on Buckys birthday, knows he’s lying even though it’s two months to March.

-

The letter he writes on Buckys birthday is as cheerful as he can make it, wising his old friend all the best in the world. And if he starts to get bitter towards the end of the letter, gets mean with his words, well, Steve’s the only one that reads them, anyway.

-

Steve has a blast on his Seventeenth birthday. For once, they have a party at his place. He invites the Wilsons, Clint and Kate, and together with his father, they have a dual seventeenth birthday and Fourth of July barbeque. They don’t do any underage drinking this time, not under the watchful eye of three parents, but they play all the stupid party games Mrs. Wilson brought along. Pin the tail on the donkey turns out to be a favourite, and pass the parcel turns into a game of peg the parcel instead. Sam, Clint and Kate have a sleepover, even though Clint grumbles that he’s too old to be sleeping at the houses of underage kids, and they end up curled together in a puppy pile, surrounded by a nest of blankets. 

The next night finds him lying on the living room floor of Clints apartment, clutching a mostly empty bottle of surprisingly good whiskey to his chest. Clint’s sprawled out next to him, Pizza Dog up on the couch with Kate, lying all over her lap. Sam’s at his house, Steve won’t see him until Friday, which gives him all of tonight and Thursday to get over his problems. He’d shown up at Clints an hour and a half ago with the left over cake, some snacks, and declared that he needed to talk about his problems. Clint had groaned, and then bitched some more when Kate, who Steve was pretty sure never actually left, agreed and scrounged around under the kitchen counter until she finally set her hands on some alcohol.  
After that Clint was easy to persuade.

Kate had started them off by grabbing a tub of ice cream from the freezer, the bottle of scotch, and settling on the couch. 

“I may or may not be in love with both my best friend, no not you Clint, don’t look so afraid, as well as one of my other good friends.” She shot a filthy look at Clint. 

“Close your mouth, I’m still not talking about you.” Clint shrugged and grabbed the whiskey from the counter before sitting on the floor, gesturing for Steve to join him as he took a large drink from the bottle. 

“So, do we get anymore information, or is this a bare bones confessional?” Clint prompted, and Kate shrugged, digging her spoon into the ice cream as she flipped her hair over one shoulder.

“I’ve know Eli for a while and we get along really well when we are completely disagreeing, and it’s pretty much the same with America. She’s just so wonderful, and Eli is as well. We hang out all the time, and every time I see them I, I don’t know. It’s so complicated, you know? I don’t know if it’s really love or not yet, I mean, I’m seventeen, but I get all jumbled up inside whenever I see them. It’s just, urgh.” She pops the spoon back into her mouth and gestures at Clint, who clearly, desperately, wants to say something.

“Her name is America? You can name people that?” He turns to Steve, gesturing at him. “Can we rename you that? I mean, your birthday makes you a perfect candidate.” Steve’s quite sure that Clint deserves the pillow to the face he gets. Steve turns back to Kate and pulls on his best sympathetic face.

“My main concern is that I didn’t even know you left this apartment.” He breaks towards the end, mouth quirking up into a smirk, and Clint chortles next to him, whopping him with the pillow when Kate gestures. 

“Neither of you get ice cream. Now, does anyone have any advice, or are we moving on?” She asks primly around the spoon in her mouth, patting Pizza Dog with her other hand. Clint and Steve shrug, and Clint hands Steve the whiskey, making a successful grab for scotch moments later. Clint throws most of it back in one impressive go, before he lays down on the floor and takes the pillow with him.

“Rent’s going up soon; I’ll need to find a new place. One that allows pets.” He adds, looking over at Pizza Dog. Neither Steve or Kate move, knowing that for Clint to have skulled most of that scotch there’s more to the issue that an apartment change. 

“My- fuck. Jesus. I grew up in a circus, one of those real old fashion ones; you know, the ones you hear about that will take just about anybody as long as they’re willing to work? My brother and I ran away to a circus when I was about three. I don’t remember anything from before the circus, and Barney never talked about it, so I don’t know anything about my birth family. Anyway, I grew up in the circus, and it’s where I learnt archery. One of the carnies kind of took Barney and I in, taught us how to work for our keep. Well, taught Barney. I was too small to do any real work. So Barney learnt how to clean cages and put up tents and work smoke machines. Anything and everything.

“When I was five, my birthday present from the carnie that took us in, Buck, was a tiny bow and arrow. That’s what his specialty was, archery. He’d wow the audience doing trick shots and fancy moves, and I got to help Duquesne in his sword act. So I was learning all these amazing things, and Barney was doing all the shit jobs. But we kept on, and I thought things were going well. But fuck, I was a kid, what the fuck did I know. And then when I was about thirteen the guy I did my act with, Duquesne, starts fucking stealing from the circus. I go to turn him in and he beats the shit out of me. Barney and Buck saved me and the guy was arrested for embezzling money or whatever. Barney and I stayed out of the way when the cops came, because we were runaways, and if they found out we’d be taken away.” He takes another sip of the scotch, and Steve undoes the whiskey, taking a drink before passing it to Kate. 

“But what Barney hid from me for a fucking decade was that Buck had one hell of a drinking problem, drank like a fucking fish and then gambled his money away. First I knew about it I was fourteen. They had a huge fight just outside the trailer; beat the shit out of each other. It wasn’t pretty. Some fucker called the cops and Buck was arrested, but Barney disappeared before the cops came. I waited around for Barney to turn up again. A day later I noticed that all of his things were missing. He just fucked off, left me fucking alone. Someone tipped social services off a few months later and they came in and rounded up all the runaway and, fuck, there were a few of us. I was allowed to take my bow with me, and spent the next few years of my life trying to be the best archer I could be as a massive fuck you to everyone.

“And now, fucking, that bastard, he called me about a week and a half ago. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” He slurred, scotch making its way through him, even as he lifted the bottle for more. Steve accepted the whiskey back from Kate, took a swig, and settled down next to Clint, taking half of the pillow.

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to do.” Steve says softly, because no one could tell Clint how to handle the situation but Clint. The blond archer rubs a hand up and down his face, before clumsily putting the cap back on the scotch. Kate leans down as much as she can and takes it off him, putting it on the corner table next to the lamp. Seeing as there’s no advice he can offer, Steve takes a deep drink, then a deep breath, and lets his woe spill out.

“I’m pretty sure I’m head over heels fucking in love with Sam.” Kate snorts and Clint laughs, loudly. 

“No fucking shit. You only just figuring this out?” Kate asks, both her eyebrows raised at him. Steve rolls his eyes, because of course they knew. He’s pretty sure Sams parents and sister know as well; it’s possible that everyone in Harlem is aware that Steve’s in love with Sam. Exactly like how everyone in Brooklyn had known that skinny, sickly Steve was completely gone for Bucky Barnes.

“No, but it hit me this morning, when he hugged me before he left, that I am completely in love with Sam, who has no fucking idea. I, fucking, I can’t even deal with this again. This is twice, it’s completely ridiculous, you know?” Steve asks around a mouthful of whiskey, suddenly completely understanding Clints need to down almost all the scotch. 

“Wait, twice? Again?” Clint slurred, tilting his head to look at him. Steve nodded. 

“I was in love with my best friend who moved to Russia. I’d loved him since he’d dirtied his hanky wiping blood off my face in a dirty Brooklyn alley a week after we met. He stopped fucking writing, a few months after he moved, I stopped getting letters. And the worst part is, I still love him. It ain’t gonna go away. And now I love Sam as well, and it’s going to go exactly the fucking same.” Steve knew he was whining, but didn’t particularly care as he was now just over half way through the whiskey. He’d never had a particularly high alcohol tolerance. 

“Well,” Kate drawled, “I don’t think Sam’s going to be moving to Russia anytime soon.” Clint nodded enthusiastically from Steves other side.

“And you didn’t have us to help you!” He crows, and had Steve been sober, he would have known, automatically, that whatever was about to come out of Clints mouth was not a plan to go along with. Unfortunately he wasn’t sober, and Kate was just close enough to tipsy to not automatically shoot the idea down like she should have.

“What you need to do, Rogers, is woo him. Ease Sam into the idea. Take him out to dinners, go on walks through the park, dance with him under the stars. I don’t know, romantic stuff.” Steve nodded along like Clints rambling held the answer to all the questions of the universe. 

“That’s exactly what I need to do. With Bucky I just sprung it on him before he left. Came out of left field, and so he thought I meant in a brotherly way. I’ll do it right, this time, and gently woo Sam the way he deserves!” Steve declares, curling around the bottle as he half sits up. Kate scoffs from where she’s now sprawled out on the lounge.

“Please, neither of you would know romantic if it shot an arrow through your ass. Don’t worry, though, I’ll help you.” She reached out a foot and patted Steves chest with it. He grabbed onto her foot as he was struck with an idea.

“You should to the same with Eli and America. Go out, just the three of you, as if you were going on a date with them. Then eventually, it will be like the three of you are dating. And when you ask them, at the same time, if they want to date you, they’ll be confused because they thought you already were dating!” Steve’s so legitimately excited by this idea that he half pulls Kate off the lounge, and she grumbles as she put the lid on the ice cream and rolls the rest of the way off. 

“Can people do that?” Kate asks. “Date more than one person at a time?” 

“Why not?” Steve asks, and Clint nods. 

“I saw it a few times in the circus. There were a few open relationships, one or two polyamorous couples.” Steve tilted his head to look at Clint, and Kate levered herself up on one elbow to do so.

“Big words, Barton.” She teased him before flopping down again, passing the almost empty whiskey between her and Steve until they all drifted off to sleep, even though it was only late afternoon, minds buzzing with plans for the future.

Before Steve leaves the next day, he pulls Clint aside.

“Whatever you chose, you know we’ll back you up. And if you decide to meet with him, I can tag along if you want. Maybe bring Pizza Dog as well, make him out to be a vicious beast if your brother gets out of line.” Clint raised an eyebrow and looked over at Pizza Dog who was dozing on the lounge, legs twitching. 

“Yeah, real vicious looking. But, ah, thanks Steve. I’ll let you know.”

-

Clint does decide to meet his brother, and Steve and Sam just happen to have coffee in the same place they choose to meet at. Steve thinks that it went well, even though it ended with a brawl between the brothers, because Clint smiled nonstop for the next week, and had a new phone number scrawled across the front of his fridge, underneath Steve, Sam and Kates. 

-

Sticking to their hastily put together plan, Steve starts to do date like activities with Sam. Absolutely nothing at all changes between them, to Steves consternation and Clints terrifying glee. ‘Gee, Steve, it’s like you guys are dating already,’ Kate had deadpanned at him over the phone, Clints laughter in the background, before hanging up. Steve had glared at the landline before putting the receiver down. 

He and Sam go and get coffee, Steve pays, and they spend half a day goofing off in a coffee shop. They go for a romantic walk through the park, hand and shoulders knocking every other step. During one of their ridiculously early runs, Steve stops them to look at the sunrise throwing his arm around Sams shoulder and pulling him in close. Steve invites Sam over for dinner when his dad is working late and cooks for him. Steve sits across from Sam instead of next to him like he normally does, and spends the entire meal missing his mouth because he’s too busy watching Sam.

The problem, Steve finds, is that they have done all these things already and trying to push things towards romantic is in no way Steves forte. The run together most days of the holidays, on weekends during the school term, and if they’re running early enough to catch it, Steve likes to watch the sunrise with Sam. He doesn’t usually pull Sam into his side, however, and is surprised at the size difference between them. He’s taller than Sam by a bit, wider in the shoulders now too. They’re both still growing, so there’s time for that to change, though Steve thinks he might like being the big spoon. Thinking about it distracts Steve from the sunrise enough that Sam notices. 

“What?” Sam asks, grin on his face, and it is literally the perfect opportunity for Steve to say something. He could spin out a cheesy line, try to make Sam blush, let him know how he feels, or he could lean across the short distance between them and kiss Sam. It would be so simple, Sam might even kiss back. The thought makes Steves breath hitch, and he’s sure Sam noticed. Panicking, Steve starts to run. 

“Race you!” He shouts wildly over his shoulder, and hears Sam shout and start running after him.

On their way back home, Steve contemplates tangling his fingers against Sams. He looks at Sam out the corner of his eyes, and Sam smiles back. Steve reaches his hand out to grab Sams, misses and end up nudging Sam with his arm. Sam nudges back and five minutes later the pair of them are practically body checking each other down the pavement. Needless to say, it’s nowhere near the romantic vibe that Steve was trying to set up. By this time, it’s been a few months since Steve’s attempted to implement his plan, and neither Clint nor Kate are surprised by his ineptitude, though Clint still howls with laughter each time Steve gives him an update.

Steve would maybe feel better about it if Kate was having as much success as he was, but she was wooing America and Eli with stunning success. ‘Step up your game, Rogers,’ Kate had coaxed last time he was over.

-

“So, have any thoughts on the future?” Steve asked Sam, oddly inspired by a guidance lesson at his school, thought probably not in the way Ms. Kinney had wanted.

“I’m thinking I might want to go into social work, maybe a bit of psychology. What about you?” Sam shrugged, splayed out next to Steve on his new king sized bed. It barely fit into Steves small room, but his feet had been hanging off the edge of his single. It had been a surprise from his father, and the first thing he’d done was call Sam to come over and test it with him. He ignored the smirk on his fathers face, tried not to blush at his own wording, and had waited for Sam to arrive.

“I haven’t really thought about any jobs. Maybe an art school if I can get a scholarship, but I don’t know. I’d like to buy a nice house, though, find someone to share it with.” He tried to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye, but was distracted by the laughter of his father, flowing easily between the thin walls. Steve felt his cheeks heat up and later, after Sam had left, Joseph leant in the doorway and chuckled some more.

“That was the worst line I’ve ever heard. Did you think that line was really gonna work?” He asked, shaking his head, torn between some sort of sympathy and ridiculous amusement.

“And after you invited him to test out your new bed and everything. I can hear Clints laughter already.” Steve tried to smother himself with his pillow.

\- 

He’s eating dinner at the Wilsons on a Friday night, and he’d ignored the knowing looks of both Sarah and Darlene when he’d sat across from Sam instead of next to him. He had a plan, another plan, and this one without any input from Clint. He could do this. All he had to do was be calm, not let anything show on his face, and ease Sam into it. Steve figured that with the added pressure of Mr and Mrs Wilson, along with Sarah, there was no way he could fuck it up.

“Ow! Steve, why’d you kick me for?” He fucked it up. 

The snickering of the three other people at the table didn’t help because it was official. Literally everyone knew about his crush on Sam except for Sam.  
-

The idea of ‘easing Sam into it’ was not working, plain and simple. It had also been the basis of too many terrible innuendos on Clints behalf, and really, that should have been a clue to ditch the plan from the get go. Steve should have figured that out months ago. It had taken Steve realising that in a few weeks it’d be the end of the school term, they’d be graduating, he was almost eighteen, to realise that the plan was complete and utter shit. 

“I just came out and asked them, like you said.” Kate had replied when Steve had asked how her plan was coming along. Steve had blinked, before attempting to brain himself on Clints breakfast nook. He really should have just told Sam. Then again, maybe a year ago, he wouldn’t have been able to work up the courage. He walked from Clints to Sams house, determination filling each step, because he’d just gone through month and month of pining after Sam and failing to ‘woo’ him. He was just going to ask Sam and accept whatever answer Sam gave. At least then he’d know, for sure, and he could either move on or kiss Sam like he’s wanted to do for years, now. 

When he opened the door, however, he knew he wouldn’t be asking Sam anything of the sort. Eyes red, Sam ushered him into the house, and Steve shut the door behind himself, immediately wrapping Sam up in a hug. He could hear sobbing coming from further inside the house, but didn’t move them out of the doorway.

“Dad, he’s, Steve, he’s dead.” 

-

Steve had a properly fitted suit this time, to attend the funeral, and he could remember ever minute of it. He’d tried to sit in one of the back pews with his father, but Sam had grabbed his arm and hauled him to the front. Steve sat between Sarah and Sam, an arm around both of them, as they ruined his new suit with their tears. The service was beautiful, Steve though absently to himself, finally understanding the feeling of helplessness, sadness, that funeral goers feel that compels them to say it. Steve didn’t say anything of the sort but, after Sam had finished his speech, Steve fished out his mothers’ hanky and wiped away Sams tears the way no one had done for him years earlier. 

“You spoke beautifully.” Steve would tell him later, curled around each other on Sams small bed, listening to the wake going on outside Sams closed door. The other teen turned around and buried himself in Steves broad chest, shoulders shaking with silent tears. 

-

Steve went to Sams graduation, held the hands of his mother and sister throughout. The dinner afterwards was as cheerful as it could be, given that it had only been a few weeks. Steve sat next to Sam and didn’t try and play footsie with him under the table. There was no need, Sam had had his hand clenched around Steves since he’d taken off his graduation robe. Steve hadn’t really been home in a few days, living out of Sams room instead.

At Steves graduation, there almost wasn’t enough space in the section allocated to his family. His father sat next to Mrs. Wilson, and he’d find out later that Sam, Sarah, Clint and Kate had paper, scissors, rocked to determine who got the last two seats. Clint and Sarah had lost, but Sam gave his seat to his sister, and Sam and Clint shuffled off to find spare seats in the crowd. 

College acceptance or denial letters were starting to appear in peoples mail, but late at night, curled around each other, Sam had looked at Steve and said,

“I’m going to join the army.” 

“Okay.” Steve said and, four months later when Sam turned eighteen, they both enlisted.  
-

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if the end feels a bit rushed, it seemed like a good place to cut it off. And I needde a place to cut it off otherwise I'd still be frantically typing away trying to finish the whole thing.
> 
> Also I feel like my tenses are a bit off in places, but that's what you get when you don't wrte for two years, I guess. Hope it isn't too wall of texty as well, because AO3 format is not what I'm used to.


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